White cotton and French lace lay taut and damp against jasmine scented flesh. A tawny thigh appeared as the damp cotton slid up and over flesh, rich cherry-colored wood pressed against the muscular limb. Unadorned fingers lightly gripped the slender bow and sweet, dulcet sounds were coaxed from the cello.

Rich baritones and soaring tenors filled the air with a melancholy that saddened the soul. The melody wound itself throughout the room, down the hallways and drifted through the open windows into the darkened yard. As if feeling the underlying sorrow of each note, the sky burst into a startling torrent of tears, thick gray clouds suddenly obscuring the sterling light, raindrops provided a gentle timpani to the poignant melody.

In another room a man stood before an opened window, allowing the wind to blow the rain against his upturned face. Every few moments a hand raised and fell as he lifted a glass of scotch to his lips. Flashes of lightning in an otherwise dark room illuminated his shadowy form briefly. His eyes were closed, ears focused upon the heart wrenching melody of the cello.

Each sustained note felt as if pulled from his very soul. He owned the sadness of the song, for it was he who caused the musician's pain. The passion behind the music energized him and he felt a growing longing to be near the woman and her instrument.

Tears dripped unheeded down the woman's cheeks. The song had been the same every night for the past month. It was her song, given birth from her pain. The song was the same but each night she added a new dimension, a new shade of melancholy to each stanza. The broken shards of her heart hung upon each note before the notes faded away and the shards fell useless to the floor.

She would be leaving him soon, she knew this. Her heart simply could not withstand further fragmenting at his hands. He was slowly killing her; she felt it as her sadness was borne into music. He wrenched the song from within her soul and she knew she had to escape.

Strong arms encircled her waist from behind, slipping between the white cotton and cherry wood. The broad expanse of a well-muscled chest pressed against her back. Hot, scotch-scented breath brushed across her ear as his hands moved and joined hers upon the bow and strings. His fingers became as hers, taking ownership of each note, pulling it from her as easily as he managed to pluck her glass heart and drop it carelessly to the floor.

It was impossible to deny the inherent eroticism of that moment. Two bodies pressed against each other, moving together in perfect harmony. For a brief moment, she stopped breathing before she melted into him and the two became one within the music. The storm swelled and crashed, keeping perfect time with the melody, reaching an emotional climax and then all fell silent.

Only the steady rise and fall of the woman's breath broke the profound silence of the room. A silence made all the more noticeable by the sudden loss of music. Trembling, she leaned back against the unyielding wall of his chest. Strong fingers moved into her hair, gripping tightly ringlets damp with perspiration and forcing her head back.

The tip of his tongue darted out; stopping the trail of a salty tear as it made its way over the slope of her jaw. The path of his tongue continued along her jawline before dipping in a soft fluttering motion over the bared expanse of her throat. He inhaled deeply as her heart began to pound; the scent of her fear and her anticipation grew intoxicating. He savored this moment, prolonging her agony by allowing his lips to hover just a hairs breadth away from where her pulse beat furiously within her veins. He waited, with the patience of death, knowing she would break, knowing she would ask him for that which she most hated and yet desired more than even her freedom.

"Please," the whisper came as a soft plea, and yet he did not oblige. "Damian, please. I," here she hesitated, unsure as to what to say next, "I need this."

A slow, triumphant smile crossed his lips. He lifted his head briefly, his richly forested gaze staring into hers of liquid amber. He held her gaze as if confirming his ownership of her soul before his head lowered once again. Her back arched sharply at the brief sensation of pain before melting in a wave of pure ecstasy. The insistent pull upon her veins was wildly erotic. So erotic, in fact, neither the terror of feeling her blood slowly leaving her body, nor the maddening need to run from him could overpower it. She moaned softly, a woman in the arms of a tender lover, rather than held prisoner by a cruel domitor.

Damian drank his fill, leaving her weakened and even more mournful than before. He allowed her to remain pressed back against him as his fingers absently combed through her hair and brushed lightly over where he had pierced her only moments before. She wept silently and he relished her tears. His fingers continued to stroke her throat with deceptive tenderness and then, he spoke, initiating a conversation that had become rote with another over 30 years previously.

"Who saved you?"

"You did."

"Who do you owe your life to?"

"To you, Damian."

"Who do you belong to?"

"You. Only to you."

So, the conversation went night after endless night. He would leave her sitting there then, depriving her of his contact. He would leave her crying, trembling with emotions she would never understand, and knowing she would never be free of him. His voice the only beacon in the darkness.